The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[piosenniel]

Rôg was glad of the chance to slip off his horse. She was a pesky thing, the dun mare was. And like many of the female persuasion, she seemed to have it in for him. It was not that he demanded much…just to keep up with the others and preferably have a relatively smooth ride while doing so.

But she was twitchy; her skin seeming able to move quite independently of her bony frame. And she knew when he was just drifting off into a doze, his attention lax. She would flick her hide, like a series of roiling waves moving across a treacherous sea…then, snicker yes that was the word, not nicker as a proper horse would do. But curl her great hairy lip up off her prominent teeth and seem to laugh at him…wickedly… And were he to actually lose his seat and fall from her, as he had on a few occasions, she would stop and glance down at him. Her dull brown flanks spasming as if she were laughing to herself. On such occasions she’d give a decided snort,too…confirming her low opinion of him.

‘I’ve ridden far better than you,’ he growled at her as he swung his leg across her back and slid down to the ground. ‘Camels, they were. Great Ships of the Desert. And high spirited and independent as they might be, still they were in no way as obnoxious and cantankerous as you, madam.’

As he walked toward where the others were gathering at the discovered entrance to the cave, pointedly ignoring her, she stretched out her neck and nipped him hard on the hip. He hobbled the remainder of the way until he reached the edge of the group.

Rôg peered down into the darkness of the cave, seeing no movement. Nor did his ears pick up any sounds of life within, save for the faint skittering of a rock dislodged perhaps by the retreating footsteps of some lizard or small rodent. There was a faint, lingering scent borne on the dank air from the cave, a mannish scent, but it was old.

‘Well, it does seem quite empty, of those of the two legged variety,’ he said, stating the quite obvious. ‘They were here and have headed out,’ he went on, his eyes flicking about the area for any hint to their direction. ‘Should someone go in? Would that be helpful, do you think? Might there be any clues to where they’ve gone? Or should we just look about for tracks and see if we can follow after?’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

“I’ve just had a bit of a look around, Mister Rôg, and you’re right. It is empty. Not too deep into the hill either,” Carl piped up, “Just goes around a bit of a bend before the ceiling and walls come around and greet each other. In that dim light though, I admit I could easily have missed a hint, had one been left us.” The hobbit looked again toward the entrance thinking that what he missed must have been obvious, so surprised he was at Rôg’s quick conclusion that the group they had come to help had simply moved on.

The cave opening was a jagged slit in the ground among the thorny plants, a mere fissure it looked, but when he had slipped through, the floor of it had fallen away sharply, spilling down into a broad slanting chamber that reached back into the hill. It had been pleasantly cool Carl had noted. In truth it would have made a nice large and dry home with a little further excavation to straighten out the floor and let more air in. But as it was, the hobbit saw that it had been occupied not long ago, and guessing by the lack of refuse, that the former residents were not likely to have been a band of orcs.

“Any sign that the cave might have collapsed or been unstable?” the dwarf, Vrór asked, as he drew up to them.

“No, none as I could see,” came the hobbit’s response, “or feel, for that matter. It’s all as solid as well...as rock. And I caught no sign of a struggle in there either, unless it’s been cleaned up, of course.” Carl glanced around them at the hills. “But two months is a long time, and maybe the struggle was for food more than anything else. At anyrate, the more eyes the better! Chances are something’s to be found I’ve missed. As Mister Rôg said, tracks and clues might have been left for us to find, and I’m no expert in either.”

[Durelin]

Vrór

Spending well over a month with such an assortment of people was an interesting experience for Vrór. He had seen elves in his lifetime, both in Dale and Minas Tirith, but he could not say he had spent much time in one’s company until now. Certainly all Dwarves’ feelings towards the tall, pointy-eared race had softened since the stonemason was a child, and those living in Erebor had learned more quickly to risk some trust with the few elves that still remained in Mirkwood, but the stonemason found himself curiously nervous around the elf. The old teacher who seemed to be well acquainted with the elf, Lindir, was a very interesting fellow, though.

The spunk that Dorran and his wife had was charming, and the Hobbit, Carl, was a gentleman if there ever was one, only solidifying Vrór’s view of Hobbits in general. It was a man that the Dwarf actually found a little difficult to trust: the Southron, Rôg. There seemed to be nothing strange about him, and that he appeared to accompany the old man was reassuring, but Vrór couldn’t help but wonder whose side he was on. The mason had not lived too long before the War of the Ring, but long enough, even if the War itself was not enough to make one wary of Southerners.

When the group, the ‘Fellowship’ as it had been dubbed, though this time around ‘of the Fourth Age,’ finally arrived in Mordor, their energy seemed renewed for a short time as they drew nearer to beginning the fight for their true cause, though they were not really prepared to fight any battles. The excitement was there, their quest finally really beginning, but there was also a great deal of dread still associated with those high spiky mountains that still stood, and the ground that still seemed forsaken. Vrór did not like the feeling of the dry, hard dirt beneath his feet. There were moments where he felt that the land itself was aware of each step he took, and was watching him, waiting for the right moment to…to…he did not know what, but he could almost convince himself that it was going to do something.

Venturing along the foothills of the Southern Mountains, the Fellowship knew it was approaching the meeting place, the caves. When Lindir and Dorran, acting as scouts stopped ahead, Vrór and the others were hopeful. Carl, on his pony, was the first to meet up with them, and by then, the confusion was clear. The Hobbit had disappeared by the time the Dwarf approached, one of the last to arrive. He had refused any sort of mount, and was beginning to regret it. When Carl’s face emerged again, flushed with heat and exertion, a troubled look on his face, Vrór felt himself tensing up. Were they there? He knew they had been late, but in what way had they been too late?

Rôg reiterated what everyone was thinking, possibly the only one who yet had his senses about him enough to do so. The Dwarf only grunted in answer following Carl’s words.

“Any sign that the cave might have collapsed or been unstable?”

The Hobbit responded that he had seen no sign, and Vrór decided to trust his vision for now. It certainly would have been obvious if it had collapsed.

“Well, at least it seems someone in that party has a good head on their shoulders to make this their hiding place. You’re right to doubt they were forced to leave by any dangers,” he said with more certainty in his voice than he really felt.

Striding over past Carl, Vrór made himself the first one to enter the cave after the Hobbit. He felt something stir in the pit of his stomach as he forced his way into the thicket. One last check behind him and he pushed his way through. Little trickles of sunlight leaked in just enough so that Vrór could make out the general size of the cave, and a few details immediately before him. A piece or two of debris made it clearer to him that this definitely had to be it. But he was sure that there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, including his own, that these caverns were empty, and had been for at least a day or two. The quiet seemed to have sunk into the very walls and floor. Feeling relatively at home in the cool, earthy darkness, and with sturdy stone surrounding him, Vrór reached out to give the nearest part of the rocky ‘wall’ a good hard pat, the smack of his hand against it echoing through the dim expanse.

It certainly wasn’t going anywhere. He tried to judge the age of the caverns, the size of it – it wasn’t deep, the number of tunnels that shot off from the main opening, and where they might lead to…he wanted to keep his mind busy with anything except the realization that what he was really looking at was a dead end.

[Durelin]

Khamir

The former slaves began their march a little before dawn, and had continued a slow but steady pace throughout the day, stopping as little as possible, and mainly being forced to pause during the midday heat. They moved slowly, more slowly than Khamir and a number of the others, would have liked. But with about fifty men, women, and children in addition to the one-armed man and his comrades, there was little hope for a quicker pace. Most of the large group carried a small bag or an article of clothing that acted as one, most of the supplies divided up among all of the men and women. Men and women – whoever felt up to it – helped pull along a very small cart pieced together from wood salvaged from boxes and barrels Khamir and his gang had whisked away from different plantations, and from scraps they snatched from any trash piles they could find. There was enough room in it to carry some more supplies and a couple children who needed some time off of their little feet.

There was only one good thing about all the difficult labour the slaves had to endure on the plantations: a long day in the sun, constantly moving, was not as daunting to them as it would be to a person not accustomed to such harsh lifestyle. And now that they had been slightly better fed and hydrated for the past two months, they were able to keep from allowing much of anything from dragging them down. About the only thing that managed to do that was the realization that Gondor had failed them once again; the King’s promises were still empty. Khamir was bitterly unsurprised, and yet he felt a pang in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger – he had long learned to ignore that feeling, and this one was more persistent.

By early on the second day of their journey, with a destination somewhere in the northern wilderness, Khamir felt himself begrudging the decision to help this group of escapees. Their determination and hope was admirable, and had been refreshing, but there were so many things about them that were both saddening and frustrating. Some of them had been affected by their lives as slaves much more than others, and in ways that Khamir knew could never be healed. And the Southron man often felt at a loss for how to deal with many of them. Slowing his pace a bit, and allowing a few people walk past him, he matched his steps with Shae’s, one of the Mountain gang, one of only fourteen others Khamir trusted with a weapon. He had taught her a bit about throwing daggers, though she had been a quicker learner than he ever expected. She had a sharp eye and quick hands, steady hands…even with the cuts on her palms.

“Do you regret our decision yet?” the one-armed man asked in a low grunt, leaning his head down closer to her ear. He expected she knew what he referred to; all of the gang should. Khamir had never said he regretted throwing his lot in with the fifty slaves they had found huddled among the foothills of the mountains, and he had not yet thought it, except when bitterly cursing the hot sun or the burden of sixty-four other presences, particularly when he was expected to take on any role that resembled leadership. But the kind of ‘joke’ had lasted well over two months now. Khamir and his…thieves, looters, bandits – they had been called many things…enjoyed being able to laugh over the situation. Well, at least Khamir laughed, though often silently.

He only hoped it would all remain in jest.